“He had something I needed. Something I couldn’t get anywhere else,” he said, holding up his chin and looking away from the light.
“What could a blind Walker Harding possibly have that was worth killing him for?”
“You’re a smart lady. You already know the answer to that. His identity. I needed to become him.” Now he laughed and squinted.
Maggie watched his eyes. The light was bothering him. Yes, she was right. Whether it was diabetes or something else, Stucky was losing his eyesight.
“Not like Walker was doing much with his identity anyway,” Stucky continued. “Sitting in that house in the boonies with his cyberlife. Jacking off to porn videos instead of enjoying the real thing.” His lips curled into a snarl as he added, “He was pathetic. Never would I become what he was, at least, not without a fight.”
He reached for the lamp again to turn it off. Maggie pulled the trigger. This time the bullet shattered his wrist. He grabbed at his hand, the anger and pain distorting his face while he tried to keep it composed.
“Are your eyes giving you a little trouble?” she taunted him, despite the panic sliding down into her legs and paralyzing her. She couldn’t run. She needed to stay put. She couldn’t let him see her fear.
He managed another smile, his face void of the pain that had to be shooting up his arm. He started walking toward her. Maggie pulled back the hammer and squeezed the trigger again. This time the bullet ripped into his left kneecap, knocking him to the floor. He stared at his knee in disbelief, but he didn’t wince or cry out in pain.
“You like this, don’t you? Have you ever felt such power before, Maggie?”
His voice began to unnerve her. What was he doing? If she wasn’t mistaken, he was the one taunting her. He wanted her to continue.
“It’s over, Stucky. This is where it ends.” But she heard the quiver in her voice. Then a new fear rushed through her when she realized that he had heard it, too. Damn it! This wasn’t working.
He crawled back to his feet. Suddenly her previous plan seemed ridiculous. How could she incapacitate him enough to bring him down, let alone bring him in? Was it possible to harness someone as evil as Stucky? As he started toward her again, she wondered if it was possible to even destroy him. He barely limped from his shattered kneecap, and now she could see that he had retrieved the scalpel while he had been down on the floor. How many bullets did she have left in the chamber? Had she fired twice or three times? Why the hell could she suddenly not remember?
He held up the scalpel for her to see, flipping it around and getting a better grip on it in his good hand.
“I was hoping to leave your good friend Gwen’s heart on your doorstep. Seemed kind of poetic, don’t you think? But now I guess I’ll have to settle for taking out yours instead.”
“Put it down, Stucky. It’s over,” but even she wasn’t convinced by her words. How could she be with her hands shaking like this?
“The game ends only when I say it ends,” he hissed at her.
She took aim, trying to steady her hands, concentrating on her target—that space between his eyes. Her finger twitched as she kept it pressed against the trigger. He wouldn’t win this time. She forced herself to stare into his black eyes, the evil holding her there, pinning her against the wall. She couldn’t let it dismantle her. But as he continued slowly toward her, she felt the wall of fear blocking her, the raw hysteria strangling her and blurring her vision. Before she could squeeze the trigger, the door to the room flew open.
“Agent O’Dell,” Cunningham yelled, rushing in with his revolver drawn.
He stopped when he saw the two of them, stunned, hesitating. Maggie was startled, looking away for a split second. Just long enough for Stucky to dive at her, the scalpel plunging down. Gunfire exploded in the small bedroom, in rapid succession—the echoes bouncing off the walls.
Finally, the sound stopped as suddenly as it had started.
Albert Stucky lay slumped over Maggie’s knees, his body jerking, blood spraying her. She wasn’t sure whether or not some of it was hers. The scalpel stuck into the wall, so close she felt it against her side, so close it had ripped the side of her shirt open. She couldn’t move. Was he dead? Her heart and lungs slammed against each other, making it difficult to breathe. Her hand shook uncontrollably as she still gripped the warm revolver. She knew without checking that its cylinder was empty.
Cunningham shoved Stucky’s body off her, a thud with no sound of life. Suddenly Maggie grabbed Stucky’s shoulder, desperate to see his face. She rolled him over. Bullets riddled his body. His lifeless eyes stared up at her, but she wanted to cry out in relief. With all the holes in his body, there was not a single one between his eyes.
CHAPTER 76
Tess leaned against the glass. Now she realized she should have taken the wheelchair that the Nurse Ratched look-alike had recommended. Her feet burned and the stitches pinched and pulled with little provocation. Her chest ached, and it was still difficult to breathe. She had been wrong about the ribs, two cracked, two bruised. The other cuts and bruises would heal. In time she would forget about the madman they called Albert Stucky. She would forget his cold, black eyes pinning her to the table like the leather shackles that had held her wrists and ankles. She would forget his hot breath on her face, his hands and body violating her in ways she thought were not possible.
She gathered the front of the thin robe in her fist, warding off the shiver, the icy fingers that could still strangle her whenever she thought about him. Why fool herself? She knew she would never forget. It was one more chapter to try to erase. She was so very tired of rewriting her past in order to survive her future. Now she struggled to find a reason why she should even bother. Perhaps that was what had brought her here.
She looked past her battered reflection in the window and watched the wrinkled red faces. Little chunky fists batted at the air. She listened to the newborns’ persistent cries and coos. Tess smiled. What a cliché to come here looking for the answers.
“Girlfriend, what are you doing out of bed?”
Tess glanced over her shoulder to find Delores Heston in a bright red suit, lighting up the sterile white corridor as she marched toward her. She wrapped her arms around Tess, carefully and gently hugging her. When she pulled away, the hard-nosed business owner had tears in her eyes.
“Oh mercy, I promised myself I wouldn’t do this.” Delores swiped at her eyes and the running mascara. “How are you feeling, Tess?”
“I’m fine,” she lied, and tried to smile. Her jaw hurt where he had punched her. She found herself checking over her teeth again with the tip of her tongue. It amazed her that none of them had been chipped or broken.
She realized Delores was studying her, examining for herself whether Tess was fine. She lifted Tess’s chin with her soft hand, taking a closer look at the bite marks on her neck. She didn’t want to see the horror and pity in Delores’s face so she looked away. Without a word, Delores wrapped her arms around her again, this time holding her, stroking her hair and rubbing her back.
“I’m making it my job to take care of you, Tess,” she said emphatically as she pulled away. “And I don’t want a single argument, you hear me?”
Tess had never had anyone make her such an offer. She wasn’t sure what the correct response was. But of all her choices, tears did not seem appropriate. Not now. Delores took out a tissue and dabbed at Tess’s cheeks, smiling at her like a mother preparing her child for school.
“You have a handsome visitor waiting for you in your room.”
Tess’s insides clenched. Oh God, she couldn’t handle facing Daniel. Not like this.
“Could you tell him I’ll call later and thank him for the roses?”
“Roses?” Delores looked confused. “Looked like a bunch of purple violets he was clutching. He’s squeezing those flowers so tight, they’re probably potpourri by now.”
“Violets?”
She looked over Delores’s shoulder, and Tess could see
Will Finley, watching, hesitating at the end of the corridor. He looked incredibly handsome in dark trousers, a blue shirt and, if her blurred vision served her correctly, a bunch of violets in his left hand.
Maybe there were a few new chapters in her life that needed writing, after all.
EPILOGUE
One week later
Maggie wasn’t sure why she had come. Perhaps she simply needed to see him lowered into the ground. Maybe she needed to be certain that this time Albert Stucky would not escape.
She stood back, close to the trees, looking at the few mourners and recognizing most of them as reporters. The religious entourage from St. Patrick’s outnumbered the mourners. There were several priests and just as many altar boys carrying incense and candles. How could they justify sending off someone like Stucky with all the same ceremony given an ordinary sinner? It didn’t make sense. It certainly didn’t seem fair.
But it didn’t matter. She was finally free. And in more ways than one. Stucky had not won. And neither had her own shadow side. In a split second, she had chosen to defend herself, but had not given in to true evil.
Harvey nudged her hand, suddenly impatient and probably wondering what use it was to be out in the open if they were not going to walk and enjoy it. She watched the procession make its way from the grave down the hill.
Albert Stucky was finally gone, soon to be buried six feet under like his victims.
Maggie petted Harvey’s soft fur and felt an incredible sense of relief. They could go home. She could feel safe again. The first thing she wanted to do was sleep.
ALEX KAVA
THE SOUL CATCHER
This book is dedicated to two amazing women—
fellow authors, wise mentors, treasured friends.
For
Patricia Sierra
who insisted I stay grounded, focused and on track
then nagged me until I did.
And for
Laura Van Wormer
who insisted I could soar
then gave me a gentle shove in the right direction.
In a year that asked more questions than provided
answers, just having the two of you believe in me
has meant more than I can ever express in words.
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 64
CHAPTER 65
CHAPTER 66
CHAPTER 67
CHAPTER 68
CHAPTER 69
CHAPTER 70
CHAPTER 71
CHAPTER 72
CHAPTER 73
CHAPTER 74
CHAPTER 75
CHAPTER 76
CHAPTER 77
CHAPTER 78
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m a firm believer in sharing credit and giving thanks, so please be patient, as the list seems to grow with each book. Many thanks to all the professionals who so generously gave of their time and expertise. If I’ve gotten any of the facts wrong or have creatively manipulated a fact or two, blame me, not them. My appreciation and respect go to the following experts:
Amy Moore-Benson, my editor, my crusader, my creative partner and my common sense—you are truly the best.
Dianne Moggy for your patience, your focus and your wise counsel—you are a class act.
The entire crew at MIRA Books for their enthusiasm and dedication, especially Tania Charzewski, Krystyna de Duleba and Craig Swinwood. Special thanks to Alex Osuszek and an incredible sales force that continues to surpass goals and records I never dreamed to be reaching, let alone surpassing. Thanks to all of you for allowing me to be part of the team and not just the product.
Megan Underwood and the experts at Goldberg McDuffie Communications, Inc., once again, for your unflinching dedication and unquestionable expertise.
Philip Spitzer, my agent—I will forever be grateful for you taking a chance on me.
Darcy Lindner, funeral director, for answering all my morbid questions with professional grace, charm, directness and enough details to give me a tremendous respect for your profession.
Omaha police officer Tony Friend for an image of cockroaches that I’m not likely to forget.
Special Agents Jeffrey John, Art Westveer and Harry Kern for taking time out of your busy schedules at Quantico’s FBI Academy to show me around and give me some idea of what it’s like to be a “real” FBI agent and profiler. And also, thanks to Special Agent Steve Frank.
Dr. Gene Egnoski, psychologist and cousin extraordinaire, for taking time to help me psychoanalyze my killers and not thinking it strange to do so. And special thanks to Mary Egnoski for listening patiently and encouraging us.
John Philpin, author and retired forensic psychologist, for generously answering without hesitation every question I’ve ever thrown at you.
Beth Black and your wonderful staff for your energy, your unwavering support and your friendship.
Sandy Montang and the Omaha Chapter of Sisters in Crime for your inspiration.
And once again, to all the book buyers, booksellers and book readers for making room on your lists, your shelves and in your homes for a new voice.
Special thanks to all my friends and family for their love and support, especially the following:
Patti El-Kachouti, Jeanie Shoemaker Mezger and John Mezger, LaDonna Tworek, Kenny and Connie Kava, Nicole Friend, Annie Belatti, Ellen Jacobs, Natalie Cummings and Lilyan Wilder for sticking by me during the dark days of this past year as well as celebrating the bright ones.
Marlene Haney for helping me keep things in perspective and then, of course, helping me “deal with it.”
Sandy Rockwood for insisting you can’t wait for the finished product, which in itself is always a much-appreciated pat on the back. Mary Means for taking such loving care of my kids while I’m on the road. I couldn’t do what I do without the peace of mind you provide. Rich Kava, retired firefighter and paramedic as well as cousin and friend, for listening, encouraging, sharing your stories and always making me laugh.